


Child's Play

by noun



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Minor Character Death, Underage Pregnancy, just. bad things happening to kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noun/pseuds/noun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josephine says, how old are you.</p><p>She says thirteen winters and goes back to playing with the brushes Dorian used to put color on her face. </p><p>Dorian's dropped something on the floor, likely one of the little tins. She hears the click, wonders if he is surprised. Sera is seventeen, she says, and lets out a little envious sigh, because at seventeen Sera is the oldest female elf she has seen who doesn’t have a baby in her belly and two at her skirts and another on her back. That’s an exaggeration, she notes, authoritative, because no Dalish woman gets to have all her babies live. Mythal takes most of them back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Child's Play

It is Dorian and Josephine who teach her how to use cosmetics.  Dorian gives her a tiny pot of gold dust, _real_ gold, and shows her how to apply it to her eyelids. She had this done to her for the Winter Palace, but now she is learning how to do it for herself. There are salves for her face and hands and nailbeds especially, given Skyhold's wind and chill. Kohl makes her eyes seem larger, but she doesn't understand why anyone would want that. She is an elf, her eyes are already large. But Dorian says it makes her look prettier, so she holds still as the stick is dragged over the sensitive skin of her eyelids.

 

Josephine teaches her how to make a kissy-face for the lip color, and Dorian makes her laugh when he does it himself. Then Dorian and Josie start talking about lord so-and-such while Dorian runs his hands through her hair. It is comforting, to be touched, and she wishes she could have more for Dorian, but as the Keeper tells all the females, only elven males make elven babies. If only Solas could be convinced to put a baby in her belly. That would be a child she could be proud to bring back to her clan, but when she looks at Solas she is _shy_ , and does not want to think of him like that. He is her _hahren_. She hums the elvhen lullaby Dorian likes as the talk turns to matters more personal. Josie mentions her father’s birthday is coming up, which is strange, because she knows Josie is twenty-seven.

 

She asks, how old is your father, and Josephine tells her he is sixty one. Will be sixty one. Apparently, the expression she makes at the news surprises Dorian, because he cocks his eyebrows just-so. She is compelled to explain.

 

There is no one in her clan or any of the clans she knows of whom is that old. Were she a hunter or warrior in her clan, she tells them, she would have already borne a child and have another hopefully on the way. But she is the Keeper's apprentice, so she is given a few more years. An elven male with magic in his line would have been chosen for her at the next meeting of the clans and she would have lain with him and there would have been a baby in a year.

 

Josephine says, how old are you.

 

She says thirteen winters and goes back to playing with the brushes Dorian used to put color on her face.

 

Dorian's dropped something on the floor, likely one of the little tins. She hears the clank, wonders if he is surprised. Sera is seventeen, she says, and lets out a little envious sigh, because at seventeen Sera is the oldest female elf she has seen who doesn’t have a baby in her belly and two at her skirts and another on her back. That’s an exaggeration, she notes, authoritative, because no Dalish woman gets to have all her babies live. Mythal takes most of them back.

 

Dorian, she says, I know there are elven slaves in Tevinter. He sputters something, but then she reasons that Tevinter elves must get more food and blankets and medicine and not have to travel and fight as much as the People. They are worth money, and Vints stretch their money until it screams, like The Iron Bull says. Maybe they live longer there.

 

Josephine has gone to the door, and calls for one of the runners. There is talking in a low, urgent voice, and she wonders what she has done wrong. Her fingers curl into fists in her lap and she ducks her head, curling her spine. Dorian is pacing, but eventually he notices her and drops to his knees and takes her hands in his.

 

Don’t worry my sweet, he says, leaning in until she has to look at him. It’s alright. We’ll fix this.

 

She puts her hands in _his_ hair this time and combs it, humming the lullaby again for him, even though it’s shaky. She’s done something wrong, she’s sure of it, because there’s running in the hall and she hears the grumble-clank of Cullen’s armor and his voice asking what’s this about.

 

Fetch Solas, Dorian says, looking to a point over her shoulder. Get Cole too.

 

I like Solas, she says, and Dorian says, I know, sweet girl. He’ll help us make sense of this.

 

Eventually, Cullen and Cassandra and Leliana and Cole and Solas come in, and Josephine comes back, and Dorian who has sat with her this entire time leaves her side for just a moment to pull a chair over and sit close to her, his hand on her back.

 

Josephine asks her to tell them what she told her. About the Dalish, she asks? Your age, Josephine corrects.

 

She is not sure that _this_ is important enough to pull Cullen away from training the soldiers and Leliana from her work, but she does not protest, and again says she is thirteen winters old.

 

Cullen makes a choking noise, and Cassandra says what, that cannot be.

 

She feels… angry. She is clan Lavellan’s first, and she is capable, has proven, and she will not let this shemlen shame her. Her fingers tighten in her skirt. They were all so eager to follow her before, to follow _anyone_ , and this makes that change?

 

She straightens her shoulders and sits up. She says, I am an adult in the eyes of my clan. I bear Ghilan’nain’s vallaslin upon my face. I have given you orders in battle and you have obeyed me. I have- I have healed the sick and wielded magic for seven years with skill and grace. My body is mature enough to bear children and I have nursed the babies in my clan while their mothers were sick or hunting.

 

She held herself proud, even on the last point, when it had been only once, when Lyna’s milk hadn’t come in and the other mothers couldn’t spare any because it was a harsh, lean winter. But she had gotten a First’s share of food and when little Alim cried and cried and she held him before Lyna followed through on her threat to smash him against the cave wall if he didn’t shut up. But Alim rooted against her chest when she held him under her furs- so small, so cold- and suckled, and his cries got weaker but two days later there was something there for him to drink, so she fed him and he lived.

 

Cole, who has been quiet, opens his mouth after she finishes thinking. When Lyna wouldn’t get out of bed they gave me her food share too and then I could feed her baby and Fena’s too. Fena was sick but Lyna wasn’t, and Fena got better and Lyna died, and we ate well. I was so cold.  

 

She looks up, and for all the expressions in the room, it is Solas’ she focuses on. His whole head is red. She knew people could have their faces red, and a fire in their eyes, but Solas is bald and the whole of his head, unhidden by hair, is bright red. She has made him angry again. Why do the things she says about the Dalish make him so angry? We are trying to survive.

 

I _am_ an adult, she says again, and it sounds weak to her. The human’s voices get loud, and there is bickering, and someone- Solas, she thinks, she can hear his feet against the stone- slams the door when they leave. She doesn’t want to pick out voices, because she knows they are arguing about her and the Inquisition. Dorian, though, Dorian gives up pretenses and scoops her into his lap and rocks her, tucking her against his chest. She takes a shaky break, and pushes her face into the soft silk of his robes.

 

I didn’t mean to make everyone angry, she says.

 

It’s not you we’re upset with, he says. It’s not you.


End file.
